


Like Real People Do

by obfonteri



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Relationship, Teasing, hermann is the real victim here, i wrote this over a year ago hhgshagh, idk how far this ones gonna go??? this is just a start i made up, newt is a lil shit, science lab antics, they have a dynamic even tho on the outside it jus looks like they hate each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-28 20:13:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12614540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obfonteri/pseuds/obfonteri
Summary: i wrote this back in 2016 and it hasn't been added to but i might pick it back so i thought i'd post it here to give me some incentive???title is taken from a hozier song thats cute bc i couldnt think of another one hahah





	Like Real People Do

It wasn’t a small thing that led Newt down the stairs that dark winter morning, with his space alien print boxers and his _X-Files_ “The Truth is Out There” shirt on, still stretched from sleep. It was nearly an hour before dawn would arrive, but he felt filled with energy. His bare feet slapped against the hardwood floors, scarred from years of hauling equipment and other lab materials across its bases, along with other forms of misuse. He never bothered to clean them, polish them, or repair any damages that fell upon the hardwood. Even then, it wasn’t the floor he was concerned about, so he continued to beat the scratch-laden floorboards with the soles of his feet. He rounded the corner, coming out of the long center hallway, and strode with purpose into the kitchen. He went in without turning the lights on at first, consequentially falling blindly against the black marble countertop. It was only after silently reprimanding himself that he managed to find the light switch along the wall. Soon, the kitchen was revealed to him. He didn’t waste a second. Flipping open cabinet after cabinet of assorted ingredients and goods, he began his work.

In a few short minutes, he had the batter prepared and the two-dollar orange juice poured. It was then that he ran into a problem: the waffle iron. Newt couldn’t find it anywhere. True, he hadn’t needed to use it since the dark ages, and there had hardly ever been a time recently where he would have found a need for a waffle iron, but now it held the key to his ministrations. Without it, his whole plan would fray and fall apart. In the event that he didn’t unearth the nefarious waffle iron of lore, he would probably fail to satisfy the one need he had in this life: to please the person that had made his life significantly more livable these past few months. It was a new and completely foreign need for Newton, who, as a biologist, had only ever seen these kinds of feelings as the results of trivial interactions between chemicals in the brain. He had always been disinterested in courting of any kind, and had set his sights on more academic horizons; at least until he met Hermann, nearly three years ago.

Dr. Gottlieb was a wonderfully astute product of Newton’s relationship with one of Hermann’s colleagues, who was another disciple of the physics department at the Mathematical Sciences Institute of Denver (MSID). They were introduced rather stiffly, but were put on a research team almost immediately once Hermann’s associate saw their potential, as both of them were extraordinary in their fields, and could probably produce extraordinary results if put to a task. Back then, Newt was very opposed to Gottlieb’s methods and mannerisms, and often displayed his disagreement by starting meaningless arguments with the man. Their spats were, for the most part, circled around nothing, most of them being fought over things like “Does Maupertuis’ Principle extend to other branches of analytical mechanics, and does it really nullify Hamilton’s principle, which uses the integral Lagrangian over time?” (which Newton had little to say about, being so immersed in neuroscience that he had next to no knowledge of convoluted mathematical principles; even then he had still found the gall to argue about it) and “Can you really say that Wittgenstein is a prominent figure of philosophy in the 20th century, when he offered nothing but a few ‘small’ intrigues into the human experience?” (which Hermann had much to say about, considering he favored Wittgenstein in his approach of philosophy of the mind). It was true, they both came from very different sides of the scientific plane, but being at the top of their games meant they were destined to be vocationally partnered, however bitter they were about it.

Newton supposed it all changed last year, when they were working on a research paper (An Analyzation of the Mathematics of Neural Coding; something they could both agree on). They had come to the end of their paper and had submitted it to the board, and Newton had suggested celebrating with about ten different kinds of alcohol and a copy of Del Toro’s _Pan’s Labyrinth_.

“It’s a work of _genius_!” Newt argued, using his hands to express his emotion at Hermann’s dislike of his favorite movie. They were walking back to the lab, where the biologist had around one or two bottles of Schaefer stashed away in one of the cabinets (on his side of the smaller-than-average laboratory space, most of which was on the second level). “How can you tell me you’ve never seen it before?!”

“Because, _Geiszler_ , I’ve not, nor will I ever, adhere to your level of exhaustive, unsophisticated means of entertainment.” Hermann huffed. He tried desperately to walk faster than his agitated counterpart, but knew if he tried too hard his cane was likely to slip, and he would look like a fool down on the ground with Newton hovering above him, spouting sermons about how worthy his choice of media was. So, he held firm and proceeded to the laboratory, where he planned to gather his things and retreat to his home, far away from Newton and his incessant ramblings.

“Say what you will, Hermann, but you’ll never get a better performance out of Del Toro. Then again, he’s a master of his art, so who knows. It doesn’t really matter right now. What does matter,” Newton slings his arm around Hermann’s shoulders, much to the man’s obvious disdain. “…is booze. And lots of it. I’ve worked too hard to not to deserve a party out of you, my dude.”

“First of all,” Hermann swings his cane in Newton’s direction, distancing himself from the grabby scientist. “Don’t touch me so casually. You know how personal contact makes me feel. Secondly, I won’t be joining you in your festivities. I have too many other projects that have been delayed because of this report, and I’d like to return to them posthaste.”

Newt rolled his eyes at this. Typical. Like he should ever begin to expect anything marginally exhilarant to come out of Hermann, especially when he had work to do. But Newt was determined, as always, to bug the crap out of Hermann until he got what he wanted.

“So if I were, to say, do _this_ …” The shorter scientist took advantage of the others shuffling pace and grabbed Hermann’s small golden-rimmed spectacles right off of his head. Hermann had stopped his steps, and stood shocked at the others behavior. Sure, he had expected Newt to be somewhat of a child. He had known that from the day they met, and was never surprised when the others expressions and emotions were somewhat _immature_ , but it still didn’t prepare him for this ill-conceived attempt at ruffling his feathers. He stamped his cane down in a fit of belated anger, and glared at the shape of his lab partner who was considerably farther away down the hall.

“Newton, so help me, if you don’t give me back my eyeglasses, I will— “

“Do what? Beat me to death with that staff of yours? I’m sorry Hermann, but you’ll have to catch me first.” Newton winked at the physicist before shooting down what was left of the hallway and crashing through the thick, plastic double-doors that led into the laboratory. Hermann could only huff moodily, as he knew his only choice was to play Newt’s game if ever hoped to see his glasses—or anything—again. He began to follow haphazardly, his leg hurting ever more in his bad mood.

The inside of the lab was quiet and dusty, the only sound being that of the hum coming from the portable heater sitting in the far corner. It could get really cold in the lab and when Hermann had shown up wearing mittens one day, Newton finally broke down and bought the blasted thing. He couldn't see hide nor tail of the aforementioned biologist anywhere, though he was sure anyone could hide amidst the conglomerated lab equipment and stray paperwork that had piled up over the course of a year. He walked to the middle of all of it, and sighed.

“If you don’t tell me where you and my spectacles are, Newton, I’ll tell everyone upstairs about the secret alcohol collection you’ve started underneath your desk. You know what they do to people who break the two-bottle rule.” He shook a finger at no one in particular, mostly because he did not yet have anyone to shake it at. A rustle could be heard, and then some muffled giggling. Hermann shook his head as he realized where his partner was. The laughing came from the second level, which was mostly an overhang inside of the small, tall-ceilinged room they had allotted to them. He glared hatefully at the stairs leading up to the level, knowing there was no way he was climbing up them anytime soon.

“I can’t climb these stairs and you know it, Newton. Please, for the love of God, spare me the pain of having to smash one of your precious specimens onto the floor.” Hermann knew he wasn’t going to do that, since he wouldn’t willingly make a mess in the already disordered laboratory space, but he also knew that Newton’s most prized possessions were his various reptile and amphibian specimens he kept on the shelf beside his computer. He glanced a wary eye over them as he made his way over to the beginning of the stairs, where he could see some of the equipment that was kept up there. Newton was likely hiding in a corner, smashed between a generator and a box of glass cases that were yet to be filled with preserved animals.

And indeed, he was. He took Hermann seriously for the most part, though he was surprised at him for suggesting he could even lift half of the specimens he had mentioned off of the shelf. He turned the golden eyeglasses over in his hands and was careful not to smudge the carefully cleansed lenses. If he was honest, he didn’t want to drag this out longer than it needed to be, and he had better get right to the point.

“Okay, Hermann.” He shouted down, not moving from his spot. His voice carried easily through the holes in the metal floor, and Hermann’s ears perked up at the sound. “I’ll give your glasses back on one condition. You, me, two glasses of Altbier or whatever the hell you mathematic types like to drink in your spare time, down at Williams & Graham at 8 tonight.” Williams was an easy bar to start with, one that could easily keep someone like Hermann comfortable and entertained for an inevitable amount of time. He unconsciously held his breath as he waited for Hermann to reply.

The mathematician was mulling it over, and that surprised him. He knew that Newton would most likely stay up there until Hermann left (because God help him he was not climbing up those blasted stairs) and would probably take his glasses home with him, only to come back still withholding them the next day. Newton played a lot of games with Hermann to get things out of him, but this was by far the strangest. He couldn’t help but feel a bit…flattered. No one had asked him to a bar in ages, rarely had they before, and so he barely knew how to react. He disliked his lab partner’s overall demeanor and childish personality, but they did work together on that project, and Newton wasn’t wrong in assuming that they both needed a little time to unwind after months of overtime and going two, sometimes _three_ days without sleep. He pinched the space between his brows and swallowed.

“Blast it, I’ll go with you, Geiszler.” He nodded in affirmation, reminding himself that this was for his glasses, _only_ his glasses. “Just…don’t expect much out of me. I’m not doing this because I want to.”

Newton, still upstairs squeezed into a corner, did a silent fist pump in victorious splendor, and once he noticed how happy he was, tried to calm himself down. He stood quickly and hopped down the stairs, meeting a tired-looking Hermann at the bottom.

“So, I’ll pick you up at eight.” He smiled smugly, keeping Hermann’s gaze as he passed him his purloined eyeglasses. The victim of the burglar took them snappily, and slid them back onto his face in relief. Everything was clearer to him then, and he saw a smile on the thief’s face. God, what had he just gotten himself into.


End file.
